


Your Breath in my Hands

by tabaqui



Series: Crash [1]
Category: Angel: the Series RPF, Buffy the Vampire Slayer RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 06:45:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2683145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabaqui/pseuds/tabaqui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a song/video prompt by sweptawaybayou, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A7hnveQ7obI">Crash, by Cavo</a>.   Lyrics <a href="http://www.metrolyrics.com/crash-lyrics-cavo.html">here</a>.  </p><p> Jason's back in town and that only means one thing: David's gonna have to pick up the pieces.<br/>Originally posted in August of 2010.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Breath in my Hands

**Author's Note:**

> So years ago there was a shared 'verse that we all called 'Cracktrailer'. Basically, the skeevier side of Buffy 'verse RPF, with a few random souls tossed in for spice. If you can't remember who Jason Behr is - he's Ford, the kid who wanted Spike to turn him. [He grew up.](http://images6.fanpop.com/image/photos/34500000/Jason-Behr-jason-behr-34543963-500-750.jpg)
> 
> One person in this is high on drugs, so the issue of consent may be iffy for some. Please consider. Christian Kane is lurking here, as well.

It is, like David's Pop likes to say, 'so late it's early'. Early enough – or late enough – for the air to be that pale blue-grey, the twilight just before dawn when the light is tricky and the heat is just a promise. Just a little kiss against your face, the humidity translating to pockets of ground-fog between the tree roots, ghost-white.

David's feet pound along the dirt, solid rhythm in time with his heart – his puffing exhalations – as he turns the corner and starts up the long hill toward the highway. Little Turkey Creek Road curves back into town right before the exit ramp; curves and dips and brings him back home again, through undeveloped woods full of oak and dogwood and scraggly wild roses, mercurochrome-pink in the uncertain light.

David whips his head to one side, sending sweat flying. It feels good to be out here, despite his throbbing head. Sweating out the toxins – stretching his muscles. Easing into another dog-hot August day. Christian laughs at him, asking him if he can afford the payments on his running shoes. Fuck Christian – David isn't gonna get a gut and jowls like his old man – isn't gonna go all pudgy and shiny, hiding his waist under suit jackets and his turkey-wattle under a beard.

What's Christian know, anyway? He spends his days hauling feed sacks and lumber, digging post holes and ditches and shoving unruly horses around. He doesn't need to worry about running to fat and cardiac catheters and skinless, boneless chicken breasts....

David is startled out of his mental rant by the bone-shaking roar of a motorcycle, coming off the highway like a bat out of hell. Black and chrome and blue-white headlight, speeding down on David like the Devil himself. And the driver, black leather and blue-jeans, dark hair whipping across dark goggles, gloved hands twisting the throttle and the front wheel of the 'cycle coming up off the pavement.

It jumps forward with a throaty rattle, leaping away, blood-red tail light and the echoing rumble like thunder, shaking David right down to the soles of his feet. 

Jason's back in town.

 

For a week, David knows nothing. He keeps his head down, he runs, he nods to his Pop at dinner Wednesday night. He bounces his knee while he sprawls on his couch watching TV and he jerks every time his phone rings until by Friday he's about ready to go off on someone – anyone – and beat them to a bloody pulp.

And then his phone rings _again_ and he snaps it open hard enough to make the plastic give a little stressed creak. 

" _What_?"

"Oh, fuck you, Boreanaz." Christian, sounding about as on-edge as David, and David feels his whole body slump.

"Jesus fuck. Sorry, Christian. I'm kinda....sorry."

"Yeah, you're sorry all right." There's noise in the background – voices and music – and David knows Christian's at the Gaslight, setting up for a gig. Probably wondering why David hasn't been around, and fuck if David wants to tell him. "Listen, your boy's over here lookin' to crack some skulls. Maybe you oughta come on and reel him in."

"My...he's not... _who_...?"

Christian sighs, frustrated and irritated and _pissed off_ , and David flinches. Just a little. "Don't even fuckin' go there, man. Just – get his crazy-ass, homicidal, messed up in his fuckin' brain self somewhere else 'fore Russell and them chop him up for dog chow. You hear?"

"I –" David says, but Christian hangs up, abrupt silence, and David just sits there for a minute, staring at the glowing key-pad. Staring at the picture he automatically – habitually – scrolls to. The one that was taken one late fall day, all shadows and golden light. Jason with his head tipped back, corona of honey light all around him, shadow slashing black across his face, one eye and white teeth glinting, wolf-like. Could be anybody, if you didn't know, but David knows. That slanting, too-feral gaze hits like a fist, every time.

A moment later he's up and moving, shoving his feet into boots and grabbing his keys out of the bowl. Moving fast, not thinking, stepping outside into a fresh breeze, storm-scent on the air and the sudden, long rumble of distant thunder. 

_Storm's coming_ , he thinks. Storm called Jason.

 

When he gets to the Gaslight twenty minutes later, the wind is already kicking up, buffeting the Mustang and he has to concentrate, holding the wheel against the constant blunt push of the storm. The Gaslight parking lot is mostly full, puffs of dust kicking up between the battered Fords and Chevys, and David parks out on the fringe, knowing he'll be soaked if it starts to rain while he's inside, but not really caring. The tamped-down gravel is still putting off heat, and the air is alternately warm and cool. Tornado weather.

He can hear music, something twangy and too country, and knows Christian's not on stage yet, still just the juke. He pushes his way inside, fighting the wind for the door. Inside is cool from the AC, already bluing from smoke and David squints around in the neon-lit dimness, looking. 

All he sees is Russell and J. August and the Brendon twins, looking ruffled and pissed off and _bruised_ , Jesus Christ, and David feels his gut clench up unpleasantly. He's just thinking maybe he should go over and ask if there's a body or something when Christian pushes through the crowd to him. 

He looks pissed, too – has a scuff mark high on one cheekbone that'll be a bruise soon enough, and the collar of his t-shirt is yanked out of shape, stitches popped, material torn at the seam.

"Christian, Jesus –"

"He left," Christian snaps, and David scrubs a hand back through his hair.

"Fuck, where –?"

"I dunno. Free Will, I think. Said something about goin' to see his Daddy." Christian lifts swelling knuckles to his cheekbone and just barely touches, scowling, and David puts a hand on his shoulder. A hand Christian twitches out from under, all but growling. 

"Fuck, man, what do you _want_ from me?" David asks, starting to get a little pissed off under all the guilt and Christian just looks at him. David knows what he wants – what he's always wanted – and David gives him as much as he can. But Jason....

Jason's had a hook in David's heart for a long, long time, and David can't help it if that hook's set deep and hard and solid. And that every time Jason twitches the line, David can't help running right into the sting of it.

"He's fucked up," Christian says finally, looking through the crowd at Russell and J. August and the twins, who're hunched over a bottle and shot glasses. They look like a pack of junkyard dogs, kicked but still snarling, and David just wants to get the fuck gone.

"He's _always_ fucked up," David snaps, and Christian's gaze comes back to him, hard and electric, blue like a slap of ice, gold-brown hair ruffled around his face. Pissed-off lion that's just barely tolerating David this close.

"Well, something's going on to make his usual brand of fucked up just that much fucking _worse_ , okay?" Christian chews his lip and scrubs his hands furiously back through his hair for a moment, wincing. Digs down into a jean pocket and shoves the keys to his rattle-trap Bronco into David's hand, lifting David's keychain into his own palm with a little jingle and chime. "Fuckin' car'll never get up the hill." David's fist closes around the keys, automatic, and Christian snorts softly. "Just go find him 'fore he does something you're gonna regret, okay?"

David starts to say something and Christian just shakes his head, turns on his heel and stomps away and David sighs. Turns himself and heads back out, flinching at the faceful of dust and debris he gets when he clears the door. The storm's barreling down on them now like a freight train, drowning the low, blue twilight. David jogs to Christian's Bronco and gets in – starts it up and heads out, fifteen miles or so up a crappy gravel road to the Free Will Baptist graveyard. Rain spatters on the windshield as he downshifts and weaves around potholes – grits his teeth while the tires judder over washboards and washouts. Rocks kick up into the undercarriage and by the time he crests the hill – sees the gate and the long line of old, wind-threshed cedars – he's pissed off.

The rain is coming in waves now – brief moments of pelting drops that ease to nothing and then rush back in, the wind like a jet-stream, furious and churning. Sky gone a sickly bruise-green over southward and of course Jason's dad is buried up on top, great view of the valley and open to everything Mother Nature has to throw at them.

David eases the Bronco through the narrow gate and on up, wheels spinning a little as they hit dust-dry clay that's going to ice-slick mud. The road winds around and up and the first thing he sees is Jason's motorcycle. It's on its side at the end of a ragged furrow of torn grass, one wheel lying snugged up tight against a tilting headstone. David hopes to fuck it was tilted _before_ Jason got to it. Jason's scarred, black leather jacket is lying haphazardly over a handlebar. David slams the Bronco into park and twists the ignition off – pushes open the door and has the wind snatch it out of his hand, making the hinges creak alarmingly.

"Jesus _fuck_." David slams the door and huddles there for a moment, wind ripping at his shirt and hair, driving bits of leaf and grass along the road like a river. Another squall of rain ripples over, stinging his face – soaking him. The single, rickety streetlight that's here – mostly because of the blind hill fifteen feet away – sways alarmingly, creaking. David shoves the Bronco's keys into his pocket and stomps uphill, cursing. 

Jason's dad is buried at the crest of the hill, under the remains of a huge old cedar. Its bark is ragged and its once-massive trunk has been split by lighting years ago, the blasted core of it silver with age, the remaining upright part hung with shaggy foliage, blackish green. Various distant family markers are scattered around, lumpy and weather-worn. Jason's dad has the newest stone – tallest stone – a grey-white block polished smooth on the front, engraved with a cross and inset with a blurry photo. That picture's always given David the creeps.

Under the shadow of the tree something's moving, and David squints against the wind and more rain, lurching and slipping in the ruts of the dirt road. Jason steps out of the overhanging branches, tanned arms bare, undershirt glowing white where it's not stained with grass and blood and mud. He's got something in his hands, something dark – long – and David flinches as the sky suddenly opens, pouring down what feels like a tsunami of frigid water. Lightning pops, followed almost immediately by a heart-stopping _boom_ of thunder and David sees what Jason has.

A crowbar. A fucking _crowbar_. Three feet of fucking rusting iron that he's lifting above his head – slashing down – and David sees the fresh, pale scar on the stone marker as the metal connects. Jason is shouting something, incoherent, and the roiling mass of clouds overhead seem to lean in, burying them in green-black shadows.

" _Jason_!" David slips in the mud again – spits rain and crabwalks into the tufty grass on the verge – slips again and clings for a moment to a listing slab of grey granite. Jason lifts the crowbar again, oblivious, and David cringes. Sure he's gonna see a finger of lightning slash down through the clouds and tap Jason right out. The crowbar whirrs through the air and connects again, a dull ringing, and David's close enough now he can hear the grunt it drives out of Jason - can see how the iron vibrates in his hands.

"Jason! Fuckin' idiot, you're gonna get fried if you don't knock it off!" Jason jerks at David's voice – spins on the balls of his feet, snarling. Swinging the crowbar like a baseball bat and David's close enough that he jerks back, feet sliding a little. There's dirt and grass smeared all down Jason's left side; jeans and muscled arms and the side of his face.

"Fuck away from me!" Jason shouts, and David flinches again as the crowbar lifts – hangs – crashes down. Chips a corner off the stone and scrapes along the ground, cutting a furrow. Jason's _drunk_ , staggering in the mud, and David weighs his chances and lunges for him, arm going around Jason's throat, hand on his forearm, squeezing. 

Jason makes a choking roar of a sound and transfers the crowbar to his free hand – lifts it up and swings it down blind, glancing off David's shoulder, leaving a muddy streak on his shirt.

"Jesus Christ, what the fuck?" David tries to tighten his hold on Jason's throat but Jason is like a weasel, all elastic joints and whipcord muscle, squirming hard. An elbow jerks back into David's ribs, a booted foot stomps down on his instep and the back of Jason's head connects with his nose. _Onetwothree_ , and David's reeling away, gasping – blinded by pain-tears and rain, Jason stumbling away from him. 

"Go home, Boreanaz!" Jason jams the crowbar down into the mud at the side of the headstone and pushes, trying to pry the thing up. David, staring through rain-soaked lashes, swears the damn thing sways ever so slightly. Jason leans on it hard, muscles bulging, and then his hands slip and he crashes to one knee, panting. David pushes himself upright, squinting against the wind, and Jason shoves a hand into his pocket – pulls out something that he tosses into his mouth. Small, maybe white – fuck.

Not drunk, or not _only_ drunk, and David revises his game plan. This is the Jason he hates the most – secretly fucking _loves_. Jason high as a kite, out of his fucking mind, violent and pissed off and all but immune to pain. This is the Jason that totaled three cars and one bike, burnt down the first Piggly Wiggly (though the cops never charged him), and put that son of a bitch Viggo into traction. This Jason gives David an instant sick feeling in his gut and a raging hard-on in the space of a heartbeat and David looks around and finds a blown-down limb from an oak, about as thick as his wrist.

He hefts it thoughtfully – blinks rain out of his eyes and brings it down and around, nice flat trajectory that should catch Jason across the side of his head. Instead, Jason rolls and kicks, catching the branch with the heel of his boot and yanking the crowbar free with a scrape of iron on stone. 

He rolls to his knees and then up, fluid as a cat. Grinning like a fucking jackal, white teeth and the plum-dark marks of other men's fists on his face.

"You stupid fucker," he says, and swings.

They fight – clumsy and wet, slipping on grass and mud, half-blinded by rain or blown debris or lightning. David's heart is pounding in his chest, half exhilaration and half terror that Jason's gonna clock him – gut him – call down lightning and burn them both; charred offerings on the altar of his insanity. Jason gets in a hit or two – David does – and they're both soaked and muddy, panting and exhausted when David finally sees his chance.

Jason's crash did some damage – sprained his shoulder, wrist, knee – something. Whatever it did, Jason's favoring his left side a little and David backs and circles and lures him until he has to spin hard – turn on a dime – and his knee gives. And then David's on him, tackle straight out of the playbook, hammering his fist down onto Jason's wrist, knees in his gut and other hand on his throat. Wrestling the crowbar out of Jason's battered fist and shoving it skidding away, lost in the weeds.

Jason writhes and bucks and growls, fever-hot and slippery with mud, brown eyes blown to black, and David draws back and punches once – twice. Gets his forearm on Jason's throat and pushes _down_. "Lie still, damnit, fucking give it _up_ , Jason, c'mon –" David rasps, and Jason heaves under him, snaps his sharp, white teeth at David's mouth and digs his hand into David's ribs. 

David leans in a little harder, getting his thighs around Jason's and squeezing, holding him down until Jason wheezes out a breath and goes suddenly limp. David eases up just a fraction - just enough. The breath Jason drags in rattles a little, hoarse, and David can feel Jason's pulse under his fingers, where he's still holding Jason's wrist hard enough to bruise. Can feel, he's pretty sure, Jason's heart knocking against his own, ribs and muscle and sweat separating them.

Jason blinks up at him, rough gasps gusting against David's mouth. Whiskey and smoke and something citrus, and David licks his lips and settles, finally _aware_ of Jason under him. Of the lift and fall of Jason's chest – the heat of him, warmth soaking through rain-wet clothes. Jason lifts his chin, blood on his mouth from David's punch, lip split and already tender-bruised, swelling. He swallows against the press of David's forearm and David can't help grinning, a little. And then a little more when he feels the unmistakable press of a hard cock against his own groin. He grinds down, arousal like electricity, snapping through him. "There now. Good boy."

Wrong, wrong, so _wrong_. Every lax muscle in Jason's body goes to steel cable and Jason is twisting and bucking and arching under him, doing God knows fucking what but managing to throw David off him, rolling them both across the tussocky grass and slap into a limestone cross. David's head is spinning and Jason manages to get up on his knees, straddling David's leg and twisting his fist in David's shirt. Hauling his head up, probably to brain him against the cross and David brings his leg up, his knee cracking solidly into Jason's groin.

Jason topples sideways and David is on him again, knee in the small of his back, Jason's left arm bent and twisted up between his shoulder blades, right trapped under his own body. David's fingers in Jason's hair, crushing his face down into the wet earth, sorrel and crab grass and dandelions.

"God damn you, mother fucking _nutcase_ , Jesus, trying to fucking kill me...."

"Get the hell off me, you son of a bitch," Jason says, voice muffled – breathless. David jerks his pinned arm higher and finally gets a flinch out of him.

"You just never fucking learn, do you? Pickin' fights, fuckin' up – just fucking _begging_ for somebody to take you down a peg, aren't you?"

"You think _you're_ the motherfucker's gonna do that?" Jason spits, and David yanks his head up by a fistful of hair, liking the strained arch of Jason's throat – the way he whines against the pressure and the pull, wrenching his free hand out from under him to claw at the dirt.

"Oh, baby, you fuckin' _know_ I am." With a heave, David hauls them both up onto their knees, bats Jason's hand aside and finds the ragged, wet hem of his wife beater. With a wrench, he pulls the shirt up and over, dropping Jason's left arm and dragging the hem of the shirt back over Jason's head. Back, and down, twisting. Pinning Jason's arms at the elbow, fingers digging into his bicep and hauling him _up_ , his own bum knee creaking and throbbing under the strain.

On their feet, David shoves Jason into a forward stumble, using his hold on the knotted hobble of cotton to keep him bent over – off balance. Because at this point, if Jason gets the upper hand again, he'll probably give David a fractured skull for his troubles. There's a low, cracked tomb about ten paces rightward, big enough for two, webbed with lichen – stained by the mulberry tree that's hanging over it.

David shoves Jason right into it – takes a second to wipe rain out of his eyes and then he's leaning in, crushing Jason between David's body and the granite, feeling Jason's hands twisting between them, fingers clawing.

David gets a fistful of Jason's shoulder-length hair and _yanks_ , jerking his head back, fastening his mouth on Jason's throat. Mouth right over the frantic drum-beat of Jason's heart, teeth and tongue licking over salted skin and the bow-string of the big tendon there. His other hand is between them, wrenching at belt-buckle and button and zip. Shoving his jeans crookedly open, just far enough so he can haul cock and balls free of the wet denim.

The rain is cold on his flesh – the wind is – cold enough to sting a little but it doesn't make a bit of difference. Jason is kicking back – jerking – doing his best to get free and David bites down, hard. Hard enough to make Jason cuss and buck, and David's laughing now, hand on Jason's hip, jerking him back so David can get to Jason's fly.

"Don't even fucking pretend you don't like it. Such a fucking little bitch, throwing your fuckin' temper tantrum...." David gets button and zip undone and pushes, peeling wet denim away from skin. Nothing underneath – of fucking course – and Jason's cock is hot and thick against David's wrist, silky and perfect.

It's a long moment of furious jerks and pushes and then Jason's jeans are down far enough and David lets go of his hair – uses both hands to spread Jason's ass wide. His hole is flushed and wet-looking and a little swollen and David feels rage rise in him, hot and huge. 

"Fucking _slut_ ," David growls, and Jason, arms yanked free of the wife beater, hands braced on the tomb, laughs.

"Fuck you, David, you don't own me –"

"Fuck I do," David says. He kicks Jason's feet wider – gets a hand on Jason's hip and one on his own cock and lines up. "Bought and fuckin' paid for," he says, and then he shoves in. Jason makes a noise like a stepped-on cat, ragged yowl, rising up on his toes, frantically pulling _away_ and David just follows, plowing in.

Shoving Jason up against the cracked limestone, he reaches around and wraps his fist around Jason's cock and squeezes, knuckles grinding into the stone. Jason keens and arches back, skull just missing David's nose, clipping his cheek and making David's eye water.

"If you didn't fuckin' want it, you wouldn't be here," David says, right in Jason's ear. And then he's jerking back and shoving in, pounding into Jason with all the fury and need and desperation he hates to show – hates to know that Jason brings out in him. Denim and metal rubbing on chilled flesh, thunder rumbling overhead. The clouds are racing, the bruise-green of them fading to a slatey blue, the worst of the storm passing over, and the rain slacks a little.

And Jason twists under him, groaning – pushing back now, arms braced wide, fingers white on the edge of the tomb. Back bowed and head bowed and David leans over him and licks the tooth marks on Jason's neck. He ignores the scrape down Jason's left side – the bruises left by fists and probably a pool cue – just needing that taste in his mouth, that scent. Needing everything Jason _is_.

"C'mon, that all you got? C'mon, c'mon, c'mon," Jason chants, his voice gone ragged, eyes half shut. Cock getting slick in David's fist, pre-come spilling over David's thumb as he jacks him, brutal squeezes and pulls.

"Fuck you, gonna make you scream, who the fuck _was_ it, damn you, who're you spreadin' for –" David twists his hips and grinds down hard – pulls back and goes in again, angled – powerful – and Jason yells, his whole body tightening down, insides clenching around David, and David grins and aims for that spot again.

"Who, fucker –"

"Gotta – pay for my habit somehow," Jason pants, pushing back, feet sliding and stopping, the naked curve of his back rolling with muscle and raindrops, little ridge of his spine and the upthrust curve of his shoulder blades. Beautiful in a way men aren't supposed to be – sinuous in a way only animals are.

"Pretty little cat," David mutters, not thinking about who sells what in this town – who Jason 'paid' an hour ago for whatever pills are probably melting in his pocket. He let's go of Jason's hip and rakes blunt nails down Jason's ribs. Jason shudders and clenches tighter and rolls his hips and David leans in to mouth the bite mark he left on Jason's throat. Orgasm is surging up through him in waves, cramping heat in his gut – draw of his balls upward, intense and ecstatic. David drags his hand up from Jason's hip to his throat. To his mouth, shoving two fingers between sharp teeth and Jason immediately sucks – bites – mauls.

David's hips move faster, out of rhythm with the pound of his heart, staggering and chaotic and totally out of his control. Jason is....

Jason is all around him, in him, filling him up through his skin and his mouth and his eyes and David drinks him down, greedy – possessive. Knowing that he no more owns Jason than he does this storm – this wind that curls around them. But it's good to pretend.

Jason's good to pretend right along with him. 

"C'mon and do it, c'mon, wanna...feel you, baby, c'mon –" David lets his teeth nip at Jason's ear, throat, jaw – lets his hand skid out of Jason's mouth and down to his throat – curls his fingers around that long stretch of skin and tendon and muscle. Squeezes, just like he's squeezing Jason's cock.

He can feel the moment that Jason's body decides it needs air – can feel the hitch and jerk of Jason's chest through his body and David fucks in harder, fingers tightening everywhere and Jason turns his head. Eyes wide, wet hair stuck in whorls across his forehead and cheek – mouth still bloody, teeth so fucking white.

Their mouths seal together and David comes, hard, feeling it go out of him like a punch – into Jason – and Jason convulses under him, spilling hot and wet over David's fist, keening whine coming out of his mouth and into David's and David just moves, moves, moves....

Until it's over, and he's gasping into Jason's hair and Jason sends a sharp elbow back into David's ribs, making him flinch and curl – making him let go, finally. The breath Jason drags in is raw and painful sounding and Jason coughs, turns in the lax circle of David's arms and kisses him. It's a sharp-edged, hurting kiss – a kiss that draws blood – and David can taste their mingled salt-iron on his tongue as he laps at Jason's bruised mouth.

"Asshole," he says, and Jason grins up at him and drives a fist right into David's gut, sending him reeling, bent over and gasping, that sick wind-knocked-out feeling making him gag a little.

"Fucking twisted fuck," Jason says. He drags his jeans up but leaves them open – stalks over toward his dad's headstone. The rain is just a whisper now, pattering down all around them and David leans on a bizarre headstone carved like a tree stump and wheezes for air.

Jason digs around under the cedar and comes back with a pack of cigarettes. Leaning on the tomb, he lights up and drags in a huge lungful of smoke – coughs it back out, rubbing at his throat. "Jesus fuck, David, tryin' to kill me?

"You love it," David says. He straightens up, finally – gets his own jeans up and closed and spies the end of the crowbar in the weeds. He picks it up and swings it – goes to lean next to Jason and plucks the cigarette from his mouth. There's blood on the filter, and David wants to lick the blood off Jason's lip – wants to claw him open and make him come again and again, until he's begging, until he's saying....

Jason digs out another cigarette and thumbs flame from his lighter – wipes at the mud and grass on his skin with a little lip-curl of fastidious annoyance. "So, you gonna get me drunk?"

"Least I could do, I guess," David says, inhaling, and Jason slings an arm around his neck and pulls him into motion.

"Fuckin' ay, sweetheart, that it is."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Covered in Broken Glass](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2696195) by [sweptawaybayou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweptawaybayou/pseuds/sweptawaybayou)




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